A Story of Al

Like many cities around this nation, Saratoga Springs is a city of great contradictions at dawn. As you wander the streets in winter, you can be awestruck by multi-million dollar homes decorated for the holidays, at the same time you watch homeless people struggling to survive until the library and other public spaces open and provide much needed shelter from sub-freezing temperatures. So it was this morning as I completed my daily walk.

As I made my way down Broadway, I encountered “Al” surrounded by all his worldly possessions: two guitars without cases, a bicycle pannier, a small backpack and a trumpet case, no doubt, being used to hold his excess belongings.

His clothes were sparse and threadbare. His hair was long and stringy. Despite temperatures in the 20s, he wore no gloves over hands that were raw and sinewy. He coughed a great deal, likely a result of the filterless Camel cigarettes that never left his lips.

He told me that he had arrived from Montreal several hours ago and was trying to make his way to the train station in Schenectady. From there, he said, he was off to Syracuse and then, by plane, to Oakland, CA where he would reunite with members of the Grateful Dead with whom he claims to have played years ago. He spoke of having played at Café Lena and having been an intimate of Arlo Guthrie. Perhaps he was but, if so, the years have not been kind.

He was proud of his father having served at the Battle of Guadalcanal during World War II and confesses that he, himself, had also been a Marine. During our conversation, he proudly opened his coat and revealed a t-shirt heralding an anniversary of his father’s unit. Below, over his stomach, was a bumper sticker that said “Jerry (Garcia) Lives!”

Throughout our hour together, as I helped Al carries his things down to the bus stop and as we stood waiting for the bus, he never asked for a thing. Rather, he seemed pleased that someone had taken the time to listen to him. Having a willing listener with whom to share stories is something I am certain that Al frequently lacks.

As I excused myself to leave, Al pulled a sleigh bell off of his coat button and gave it to me. “Here, you take this,” he said. “I am trying to get rid of things.”

I took the bell, almost embarrassed that I had nothing to offer in return. I stuck it in my pocket and, when I returned home, transferred it to my overcoat.

I am certain that this small bell will come in very handy, perhaps for the rest of my life. For every time I am tempted to feel sorry for myself and to bemoan what life has denied me, I will hold that bell in my hand and remember a man named Al. He had little to give but gave what he had gratefully.